


Ceremony of Blood

by Lomonaaeren



Series: Advent Fics 2016 [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood Drinking, Issues of Disability, M/M, Non-Romance, Working Toward Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:12:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8769499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: Harry and Draco have fled the too-inquiring minds of Harry’s friends and are now living in an isolated safehouse while Draco works on preparing the potion that will restore Harry’s sight. Of course, that point is a long time away yet, and while he works, there are…other things they can do to entertain themselves.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is another of my Advent fics, for lyonessheart, who asked for a continuation of my Bloodstone Potions series. This should be read right after “Heart of Knives.”

Harry leaned the new spaces of Malfoy’s cottage slowly.

(Malfoy didn’t want him to call it a cottage. He said it was a safehouse, a bolthole. But since Harry didn’t think he knew the difference between those things even when he had his sight, a cottage it was).

There were bookshelves on the wall of the largest room that Malfoy consulted all the time, brushing past Harry as if he didn’t exist, nearly toppling him from his feet. He laughed when he did it. Harry learned the dusty sound of that laughter, as he learned the dusty smell of the books, mainly by experiencing them.

Malfoy said he was making Harry stronger, so that when the moment came that Harry was able to actually regain his sight and stand up for himself, he would do it without hesitation. But Harry only turned away to let Malfoy go by, and busied himself with learning the spells that he needed to survive.

He was perfecting the ones that read letters and books aloud to him. And there was a journal of some kind that Malfoy insisted he read. At first Harry thought it was a potions journal, and he had refused on principle. What did _he_ know about potions?

“ _Read it_ ,” said Malfoy, and shoved it at him hard enough that Harry had to grab it before it dropped. Malfoy would leave it on the floor if it fell, and Harry would probably trip over it.

It turned out the reading spell had to be adapted for journals, and Harry struggled for a good hour, Malfoy’s snickers in the background, before he managed it. And then he sat, enthralled and listening, as the journal talked about ceremonies that could be conducted using one’s own blood, no one else’s, but would only work for those who had shed a lot of blood before. Soldiers. Aurors.

Chosen Ones who had barely survived the war, and then had former Death Eaters burn their eyes out.

The ceremony wouldn’t speed up the potion Malfoy was brewing, wouldn’t bring the date that he had said was a year in the future any closer. But it would mean that Harry could regain a kind of sight for a few days at a time.

He wouldn’t be seeing through the balls of glass that the Healers had fastened to his eyesockets, though. Or even through the eyes of a portrait or an owl or something, which was what Harry had thought at first when the journal had talked about “borrowing” eyes.

He would be using Malfoy’s.

*

Draco tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He had to sit like this for at least an hour, while runnels of Potter’s blood dripped from the bucket above him, running across his face and meandering slowly across his cheeks to drip off his chin into his lap. He had to be soaked with Potter’s gore.

And more to the point, he had to let as much of the blood as possible run across his closed eyes.

It was an interesting hour, experiencing what Potter had for the last few months, listening as the blood they had collected for weeks ventured across his skin. Potter’s breathing seemed louder than normal, his shifting more frequent, and Draco didn’t think that was the effect of not having his sight right now. Draco _trusted_ his senses. He had to, when he was brewing potions where a change in the scent or the sound of the bubbles might be the only warning he got before the world blew apart.

And he knew Potter was anticipating it in spite of himself.

It had taken Draco surprisingly little time to talk Potter into it. Of course, he had been intrigued by the thought of the ceremony from the beginning, but he hadn’t wanted to do it, shaking his head when Draco talked about how much blood it took.

“I’d bleed to death before—”

“That’s why we collect it a little at a time, arseshole, and preserve it. Of course no one thinks that you’re going to give it all at once, and then just barely be able to use my eyes before you collapsed and die.”

“Such wonderful, loving nicknames you use for me.”

Draco ran a professional glance over Potter and smiled when he started shifting around. “Of course I do. I’m the only one who loves you in the world at this moment, you know.”

“Ron and Hermione still love me. Those articles never said they didn’t.”

“That’s because the _Daily Prophet_ is too delicate to print a condemnation of their hero in so many words. But you know that’s what they meant.”

Potter had said nothing, but he’d breathed in a stuttering way, the way he was now. Draco had taken his hand and said nothing.

And it _was_ true, that Weasley and Granger had insisted that “Harry” had been found practicing Dark Arts, and that meant he was under the evil enchantments of Draco Malfoy, because obviously he would never do such a thing of his own free will. He had to be found and rescued! Right now! Why weren’t the Aurors and the _Prophet_ doing more about it? Did no one care, except them?

 _They can’t find us because my bolthole is too well-hidden,_ Draco thought, as he leaned back even further and let more warm blood drip over his eyes. He’d built it to fool Death Eaters on his trail if he had to. It was certainly secure enough to elude the likes of Weasley and Granger.

“It’s been an hour.”

Draco wanted to say it didn’t feel that way, but there was still a thick trail of liquid on the corner of his mouth, and he absolutely couldn’t swallow any of it, or Potter would be using Draco’s tongue instead of his eyes. He only tilted his head a little in acknowledgment, and then used his fingers to tap on Potter’s hip when Potter showed no sign of understanding that.

“Okay,” Potter said, his breathing unsteady. Draco sat up, and listened to the sound of the bucket being tilted up and put away. At least Potter had practiced the movements enough that he was unlikely to drop it.

“Now what?”

“You know what,” Draco said, speaking carefully and listening to the crackle of softly breaking blood on his cheeks as they moved. “You know that you have to come here and—suck the blood off.”

He could feel Potter shuddering even though he couldn’t see it, and laughed a little, because he knew those shudders weren’t of disgust even though Potter would like them to be. He drew him forwards, his fingers entwining with Potter’s.

“Come here.”

As if those words had let him give himself permission, Potter almost fell on him. His tongue lapped out and licked down Draco’s cheeks. Draco gave a little wriggle. Apart from just the sensation of being licked, he also enjoyed the sensation of what was almost like a scab peeling away.

He could imagine how he looked, how Potter would look leaning over him and moving his mouth slowly up to Draco’s eyes.

It was enough to get him hard.

Potter seemed to sense it, because he made a faint noise of disgust. “Is there anything that doesn’t make you randy?” he muttered, or something close to it. He couldn’t move his mouth away from Draco’s face, so Draco was half-guessing on the source of those words, but he knew Potter. He knew him better than anyone else, now.

_Probably better than he knows himself. And better than those disgusting friends of his ever will again._

The thought made him want to laugh, but he only reached up and put his hands around Potter’s neck instead, drawing him in. Potter had to kneel on his lap for the next part, and Draco knew he would enjoy that—as long as Potter didn’t put his knee right on top of Draco’s cock. It seemed unlikely, so Draco leaned further back and kissed the underside of Potter’s throat.

Potter shuddered and whined, but still didn’t take his mouth away from Draco’s face. He was moving steadily up towards Draco’s eyes, and Draco could already imagine the way his eyelids would flutter and jump when Potter’s mouth arrived—

And he _did_. Potter started sucking, and Draco spread his legs entirely without meaning to. Potter jolted down a little as he was suddenly kneeling more on the chair than in Draco’s lap, but he didn’t stop.

It felt so good. Draco was accustomed to being the one to make Potter feel good, sometimes against his will. He had never imagined that he would do this, reaching up to stroke his hand through Potter’s hair and groaning breathily for an invisible audience.

His eyes were being pulled out of their sockets. Draco squirmed upwards and humped his hips as much as he could, but he couldn’t touch Potter’s leg. He was just out of reach. Draco whined again and let his legs fall open until he was begging.

Potter never turned away from his steady sucking of Draco’s eyes.

 _He has to,_ said the small rational part of Draco that had been hoping all along Potter would choose this ceremony from the book, and knew what was required. _He can’t just stop when he wants, because_ you _want_ —

But that didn’t make any difference now. Draco could feel the dried blood and the part that was still liquid separating softly from his eyes, and it was good. He finally angled his cock to brush Potter’s knee.

Potter snorted. He drew back, and licked his lips with a soft crackling noise of his own, and spoke. “So desperate for me even when you can’t be the one to make me come, Malfoy? I ought to leave you hanging.” He reached out and grazed the knuckles of his hand slowly, thoughtfully, along Draco’s cock.

Draco opened his eyes with a gasp. Potter had sucked all the blood off, he must have, if he was talking now. And he had more reasons to want the ceremony to work even than Draco did. That meant he could—

The world seemed to surge dizzily around him, and then it steadied. Draco had the sense of something perched right behind his eyes, an insect that had crept into the sockets, and reached up to scratch them.

Potter fell off his lap. Draco stared down at him and shook his head.

“Stop doing that, it makes me dizzy,” Potter moaned.

“How? You can’t _see_ —”

And then Draco stopped. Really, he should have thought of the significance of that itching right away. The ceremony had worked, and Potter was sharing his eyes. Draco promptly shut them.

“I was just getting used to the colors,” Potter said in a whiny voice as he, from the sounds, knelt upright on the floor and then groped around until he could find a corner to pull himself up again. “Put them back.”

“They were making you dizzy,” Draco said primly. “I’m just doing you a favor.” In truth, he was hard all over again at the thought that _he_ was the one granting Potter access to sight. He wanted to savor the feeling of control.

“Right, of course you are,” said Potter, darkly enough that Draco reached down to squeeze himself. He was quiet long enough Draco thought he was going to just stay there on the floor, but then he whispered, “Put them back. They’re the first colors I’ve seen since then.”

“Will you come here and take care of me?”

“After five minutes with the colors, I will.”

Draco considered the bargain, and the straining hardness pushing at his pants, and finally decided it was enough. He angled his face carefully so he would be looking at Potter, and opened his eyes.

Potter gasped. Draco watched him with his eyelids rising and falling, as if he still thought he could mimic sight, and he was turning his head to stare out into the small garden where Draco grew some useful herbs to flavor tea along with guardian plants. He was staring at the thick green and the blue sky and the sunlight, Draco thought.

He was suddenly, fiercely glad it wasn’t raining today.

Potter crawled a few lengths along the wooden floor towards the garden window. He reached out with one hand and traced a line along the glass that made no sense to Draco, until he realized it mimicked the shadow of a long, curving leaf that hung outside.

That made Draco feel a queer quiver in his belly. He watched Potter for a few minutes more, and then closed his eyes and said, “You promised. You said that you would come back and take care of me.”

“All right.”

Potter’s voice was docile, almost dazed. Draco opened his eyes again so he could see the way back, and Potter got to his feet and slowly tottered forwards. He was still more inclined to stare at Draco’s books and table and chairs and fire than Draco himself. He would have liked to stand staring into the fire for hours, Draco knew, but that wasn’t possible.

Draco parted his legs and presented himself impatiently.

Potter stroked him, but it was in the same dazed fashion. He was always paying more attention to something else than what—or who—he was doing. Draco waited for it to get better, and it did, in the sense that the pleasure surged through him and he came and everything was well for a moment.

But Potter had taken his hand away and gone back to staring at the fire the minute Draco was done, and that _wasn’t_ well or pleasing.

“Come here and let me do you,” Draco commanded him.

“You don’t need to.”

“I want to.”

“No, I mean you don’t _need_ to.” Potter shook his head, his wild hair casting its own curving shadow down the side of his neck. “There’s nothing for you to touch.”

That Potter hadn’t been aroused when Draco had got off so strongly was the final humiliation. Draco closed his eyes and concentrated hard on calming down that sharp itch in the back of his head so Potter’s link to his eyes would be severed.

Potter cried out, more pitifully than Draco had ever heard him, but Draco refused to regret what he’d done. He stumbled dizzily to his feet and ran as fast as he could into the back room, the one sanctuary he had from Potter, and slammed the door.

Potter clawed at the door for a while, cursing him, but Draco only leaned his back against it and shut his eyes. He kept them shut even when he knew Potter had given up and gone back into the main room to brood next to the fire. He was probably imagining what it looked like and wishing he could still see it.

 _When you attend to me the way you should,_ Draco promised him viciously, and flung himself on the bed.

*

For days after Malfoy had cut him off so suddenly from the colors—and he hadn’t opened the link _yet_ to let Harry try and see them again, the git—Harry mourned as he hadn’t even mourned the initial destruction of his eyes.

He traced the memories through his mind, like bright fish caught in a net, and tried to keep them fresh. But they were fading already. They were getting muddled and mixed up with colors as he remembered them before his blinding, and he no longer was sure _those_ memories were untainted, either.

He kept thinking of all the things he should have looked at when Malfoy actually permitted him access to sight, and then he would replace them with a whole new set of things, and honestly, Harry didn’t much want to move from his chair in front of the fire. Why _should_ he? Nothing would bring the sight back.

Then Harry woke from a doze, which had rainbows in it, to find himself seeing through Malfoy’s eyes again—the dizzying sight of himself slumped over, stubble on his chin, his eyelids fluttering uselessly.

“Get up,” Malfoy snapped. “God, you’re more pathetic than you were when I first found you.”

Harry sat still, only standing when Malfoy’s hand moved as if it would slap him. Then he took a short staggering step. He could see mostly where Malfoy looked, but some other things, too, as if part of each eye belonged to him and would trace a limited path at his command. Harry stared at the sunlight immediately, and then at the fire. Those had been the most frequent entries on his little lists.

“We’re going outside, Potter, come _on_. I want to see if you can fly this way.”

Harry shivered and walked to the door, avoiding the table and chairs and a loose boot from a combination of sight and the instinctive movements he’d developed when he was blind. He could move his feet faster now, though. He could turn aside from the table entirely instead of having to substitute a less painful collision with his hip for one against his shin.

“Hurry _up_ , Potter.”

But they were at the door, and Malfoy opened it on a miracle of green.

Not even Malfoy urged him to hurry up after the gasp Harry made at the sight of the garden. He walked slowly, and Malfoy reached back and put a hand under his forearm and helped him do it.

The longer the link between them went on, the better Harry could control it. At one point Malfoy turned and looked back at the house, and Harry was still gazing in absorption at the blue flower before him. Malfoy didn’t complain about being temporarily blind, either, and he _would_ have.

It was a solution. Not the same as a permanent solution like the potion Malfoy was brewing, but quicker. Harry put his hand out and watched his fingers brush the grass at the same moment as he felt it, and he wished he could still cry.

“You know this won’t last forever.”

Harry only nodded. He had better things to listen to than Malfoy, like the breeze, and he already knew this wouldn’t last forever. He didn’t see why they had to talk about it.

“Look at me, Potter.”

Stifling a sigh, Harry did so. Malfoy’s face looked even more pointed than it had when they were children, as if he had starved sometime in the last few months when he was making the potion for Harry. Harry frowned. He knew that couldn’t be true. Even if Malfoy didn’t have the money to make the potion, he’d used Harry’s money for many of the more expensive ingredients.

Malfoy drew his chin towards him, looking at him intently. “I didn’t do this for you.”

“I know. You did it so you could have your rival back.” That was another thing that had always been true, Harry thought, and which he didn’t see the point of Malfoy bringing up now. So he had done things for selfish reasons. So had Harry. He wondered why Malfoy was bringing his head down and taking a deep breath as if he wanted to say something else, a different reason.

Harry shifted. He didn’t want to hear a different reason. He owed Malfoy a lot, but he was repaying the debt by trying to live and not giving up. So he didn’t—it wasn’t as if there would ever be a different basis between them than there was now.

“I want you to watch me now,” Malfoy said, and even though they were already sitting down on the grass, he sank down further. Harry didn’t understand until he watched those white fingers reaching for him.

It was odd, being able to see them before they touched him, and not flinching as a consequence when Malfoy’s hand gripped his cock. But at the same time, the intensity that sprang up in him when Malfoy’s hand connected made Harry moan. He found himself falling back before he thought about it, his legs sprawling open, and Malfoy chuckled breathlessly.

“That will make it a little harder for you to see me. Raise yourself on your elbows.”

Harry did it, still blinking and trying to understand what he was seeing. Malfoy watched him with lazy, bright eyes for what seemed like endless moments before lowering his mouth.

Harry couldn’t keep his promise as his head snapped back and his magical sight went with it, bouncing up to the sky and flinching back from the sun. He seemed to have lost the instinct for looking away from it while he was blind, Harry thought hazily. And Malfoy’s mouth around his cock…

It was brilliant. Harry writhed in the glowing grass, and watched Malfoy’s pale hair swaying as he swallowed, and the pleasure that rippled through him was a lot more like sunlight than he’d remembered it being.

After he’d finished, Malfoy sat up and watched Harry with a wet mouth and contemplative eyes for a long time. Harry lay still, at first because he was limp-boned, and then because he realized something was different. Usually, Malfoy would insist on Harry returning the favor at once, or he would just have moved up and grabbed Harry’s head and pulled it into his groin.

It was different, being able to _see_ Malfoy thinking. Harry finally swallowed and asked, “Yes?”

Malfoy shook his head and began stripping. Harry stirred a little as he _saw_ Malfoy’s cock for the first time, hard and straight as a white arrow. “If you want me to suck you, you’ll have to come over here,” he said.

Malfoy dropped to his knees without speaking, but he didn’t reach for Harry’s neck. Instead, his hand went to his wand, and he cast a nonverbal spell. Harry didn’t think it had any effect until Malfoy turned a little to the side, and the sunlight picked up the glow of lube on his cock.

Harry swallowed. The motion seemed to go on forever, as if his throat had suddenly opened into his stomach. “Oh,” he whispered.

Malfoy nodded, and waited. _He’s enjoying the fact that I can see him and I can respond that way,_ Harry thought, out of nowhere, but he was abruptly sure that it was true.

Malfoy didn’t hurry him, either. When the wetness seemed to dry off his cock, he took up his wand and cast the spell again. He then put his wand safely out of the way and waited some more, gaze more penetrating on Harry than Harry thought his shaft could ever be.

And in the end, Harry nodded and broke the tension and opened his legs, not intending to say anything, either.

*

_Right decision, Potter._

How badly Draco wanted to say that, but he still couldn’t, not when he didn’t want to break the tension. He only nodded and cast another lube spell, this time on his fingers, before he reached down to Potter’s arse. He only lifted the robes that still clasped Potter’s torso out of the way. He’d seen Potter with a bare chest before.

 _This,_ he’d never seen. And he thought no one else probably had, either, given how pale Potter’s skin was here.

Draco shook his thoughts away. He was moving in some vast, still world that had them sharing his eyes, and him sharing Potter’s body, and he didn’t want to ruin that. He reached down and stirred his fingers inside Potter, spreading lube slowly along the rim of his hole.

Potter grunted.

Draco looked up swiftly, but there was nothing to tell him whether that was a grunt of pain or not. Potter seemed determined not to say anything either, and he was lying with his head tilted to the side so he could see Draco. To Draco’s relief, though, he kept his lids closed, so there was no glimpse of those false green eyes that would destroy the moment for Draco.

As long as he didn’t see the glass balls the Healers thought would be less disturbing for other people than the empty eyesockets Potter really had, Draco could pretend Potter was sighted, and that he simply chose to keep them shut.

Draco added one more finger, two more, and still Potter only spread his legs further and grunted a little. Draco finally decided that he wouldn’t get any other reaction out of Potter until he actually entered him, and he was growing anxious to do that, his bollocks heavy enough to drag the grass.

He reared back and took his cock in hand. Potter jerked his head a little, but didn’t speak, still.

Draco slid into him.

It was a squeeze for a few seconds, no more than that. And then it was so warm Draco cried out, his back arching and his ribs shaking. He knelt there, unable to move, frozen in between pleasure and the feeling that he would shatter something irrevocably if he continued to push in.

He didn’t even know if he would break Potter, or break himself.

Potter reached out with his legs then, and Draco blinked and looked, distracted, thinking Potter would reject him from the tightness of his arse. Instead, Potter brought his legs back together with a clap, his ankles and toes catching Draco behind _his_ legs. Draco tumbled down fully onto his knees, shaking.

He didn’t know if it was more his effort or more Potter’s, but together, they drew him fully into Harry Potter.

Draco reached out and tried to get a grip on Potter’s hips. He couldn’t. His hands were shaking too badly. He ended up having to press them into the dirt and grass of the garden, and then he rocked, once.

Potter caught his breath so sharply that Draco could hear worlds in it.

He began to rock.

It had to go slowly, and no matter what he tried, Potter’s cock didn’t rise again. Draco tried to see that as a tribute to him. He’d sucked Potter off so thoroughly that there was no way he could get it up soon.

But he regretted it a little, in a way. He wanted to feel what it would be like to be inside Potter when he came.

He ran his fingers up and down slick skin, scarred skin, taut skin. Potter was panting on the grass under him, and Draco tried his best to give him pleasure with steady thrusts, strong dragging pushes and short pauses, even if he couldn’t get it up again.

He was rewarded when Potter murmured and flushed. Although a scream would have been even better. Draco grinned in victory and continued to thrust.

He was speeding up without thinking about it, his body sending him spiraling forwards with his own need. Draco lowered his head and gasped as a surge of heat caught him by the chest and his hips hammered once, twice, three times, before he stopped.

The scream was his own as he emptied himself. And it was a better conquest than he had ever thought it would be, because he had Potter willing.

He held still for a long moment after his pleasure was over, and then he leaned forwards, deliberately, and brought his face close to those blind eyes. He knew Potter was still watching him with magic sight, and trying to determine what he was doing, by the way his forehead wrinkled.

Draco whispered, “Harry.”

Potter’s hand rose slowly and curled through Draco’s pale hair, and held on. Draco lowered his head and closed his own eyes, not breaking the sight Potter had now that it was fully settled and gifted, and they lay there in the silence and the sun.

**The End.**


End file.
